


I Love My Lover With A--

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affection, Fluff, Games, Humor, Kissing, Love, M/M, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: “I love my lover with an A,” Aziraphale murmured against his hip, his fingers playing over the sides of Crowley’s handsome knees, “because he is Adversarial. Because he is Avaricious; Atrocious.”“Because he is Adoring,” Crowley murmured, albeit tiredly, and Aziraphale smiled, laying more kisses upon the light, athletic muscle of Crowley’s thigh. “Because he is Ardent; Amatory.”





	I Love My Lover With A--

**Author's Note:**

> Some mild homophobic slurs, but only in play!

Crowley was sprawled in the sunlight, light forming fine, golden pillars that shone onto the bed from the wide windows. Aziraphale had somewhat romanticized, in the beginning, the idea of all these lovely windows in the bedroom, thinking well upon the idea and the inherent charm in it[1], but he had become irritable the first dawn that had broken over their heads, waking them from their slumber.

Of course, the light hadn’t bothered  _Crowley_. He rather enjoyed sleeping in the sunlight, basking in it… Aziraphale did think, later on, that they might invest in some curtains, but privacy was afforded them by the thick hedges of the garden outside, and they needn’t be  _black-out_  curtains necessarily, merely that the glare might be lessened.

They’d only been in the cottage a few weeks, now, of course.

There was time for all that.

Crowley was naked, lying on his belly, loosely hugging one of the pillows[2], one of his knees drawn slightly up onto the mattress. His backside, Aziraphale thought, looked very fetching like this, all nice, curved lines and a good deal more muscle than Aziraphale had on his own: the sun shone beautifully off his dusky-brown skin, giving it a golden tint.

Aziraphale slid forward and onto the bed, sliding his arms around Crowley’s legs, and he drew his mouth over the back of Crowley’s thigh.

“Mm?” Crowley hummed.

“Are you asleep?” Aziraphale asked mildly.

“Nn,” Crowley answered: a negative, albeit an uncertain one.

“I wanted to go for a walk.”

“H’ve f’n.”

“With  _you_.”

“ _’Ngel_ ,” Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale delivered a neat kiss to the centre of one of his buttocks, before applying a second balm to the other. He heard Crowley sigh softly, and then shift slowly on the bed, lying on his back instead of his belly and giving Aziraphale a sleepy, doleful look from snakeish, yellow eyes.

“I love my lover with an A,” Aziraphale murmured against his hip, his fingers playing over the sides of Crowley’s handsome knees, “because he is  _Adversarial_. Because he is Avaricious; Atrocious.”

“Because he is Adoring,” Crowley murmured, albeit tiredly, and Aziraphale smiled, laying more kisses upon the light, athletic muscle of Crowley’s thigh. “Because he is Ardent; Amatory.”

“I love my lover with a B,” Aziraphale said, breathing soft against Crowley’s skin as he drew his mouth lower, toward Crowley’s other knee, “because he is  _Bestial_. He is Barbarous; he is Base.”

“I love my lover with a B,” Crowley said. “Because he is  _Bent_. Ow!” Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale leaned over the little mark he’d made, soothing the nip of his teeth with his lips. “Because he is Beautiful.”

“That’s better.”

Crowley smiled at him, lazy and indolent, and Aziraphale kissed the top of his knee.

“I love my lover with a C,” Aziraphale said, “because he is  _Callous_.”

“I love  _my_  lover with a C, because he’s a—”

“Don’t you  _dare_.”

“— _Charmer_. Don’t dare what?”

“That isn’t what I thought you were going to say.”

“What did you think I was going to say, angel?” Crowley’s voice was dripping with amusement, and Aziraphale beatifically ignored him, beginning to bestow his affections upon the other knee. “Charmer, snake? Traditional, no?”

“I love my lover with a D,” Aziraphale said, “because he is  _Dastardly_. He is Deceptive; he is Dreadful.”

“I love my lover with a D,” Crowley said, “because he is Daring; Dutiful; Doting.”

“I love my lover with an E,” Aziraphale whispered, and he felt Crowley shiver as Aziraphale’s mouth was drawn back up his other thigh, “because he is  _Evil_.”

“Ebullient.”

“ _Endearing_.”

“Execrable.”

Aziraphale chuckled, nipping again at Crowley’s hip, and delighting in the way the demon squirmed beneath him. “I love my lover with an F, because he  _won’t_  say anything inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate begins with an I.”

“Because he is  _Frightful_.”

“Because he is Fair. Fragrant.  _Flagrant_.”

“I love my lover with a G,” Aziraphale murmured, trailing his nose over the dark hair over Crowley’s groin, moving up toward his navel[3], “because he is Grave, and  _Grim_ , and Grotty.”

“ _Grotty_?”

“Grotty.”

“I am not.”

Aziraphale blew air over Crowley’s navel, and Crowley let out a loud noise of complaint, kneeing Aziraphale lightly in the side.

“I love my lover with a G,” Crowley said, “because he is  _Gorgeous_. I love him with an H, because he is Heavenly.”

“Because he is Hellish,” Aziraphale replied, pressing a kiss to the centre of Crowley’s belly. “Because he is  _Handsome_.” He watched Crowley’s lips shift slightly into their smile: a warm, genuine smile, not a smirk. “I love my lover with an I, because he is  _Ignoble_. He is  _Iniquitous_. He is Immoral.”

“I love my lover with an I,” Crowley said, his eyes fluttering closed as Aziraphale’s mouth drew up toward his chest, “because he is  _Illiterate_.” Aziraphale laughed against his chest, pinching his hips, and Crowley corrected, “because he is  _Illuminating_. Imaginative, Irresistible, Immovable.”

“I love my lover with a J,” Aziraphale said, laying his body over Crowley’s and enjoying the way the demon  _relaxed_ , all but melting beneath his weight, as if Aziraphale were naught more than one of his blankets, “because he is Judicious.”

“Am I?” Crowley asked. He didn’t open his eyes, but his tone was softly inquiring, and Aziraphale kissed the skin just below his nipple.

“Because he is Jocular.”

“Jovial. Jubilant. Jaunty?”

“I love my lover with a K,” Aziraphale murmured, “because he  _Knows_  me.”

“Dirty joke.”

“Isn’t that the point, my dear?”

“I love my lover with a K,” Crowley said, and his fingers curled through Aziraphale’s hair, his fingers dragging through the locks, “because he is  _Knavish_ ; then again, he is Knightly.”

“Oh, nightly, and daily too, if it can be managed,” Aziraphale said gravely, and Crowley laughed again, drawing one leg loosely around Aziraphale’s, and locking them together. His throat looked so lovely when he laughed, but Aziraphale hadn’t reached it, not just yet. “Because he is  _Kind_.”

Crowley swallowed.

“I love my lover with an L,” Aziraphale murmured, “because he is  _Loving_.”

“Because he’s a Luddite,” Crowley mumbled, his eyes closed a little tighter than they had been: so too was his heel digging closer against Aziraphale’s thigh, keeping him close. “Because he is a  _Lurdan_.”

“I love my lover with an M,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing Crowley’s nipple, and sliding gracefully to the other, “because he is Magnanimous. Because he is Magnificent, Mellifluous, and  _Mischievous_.”

“I love my lover with an M,” Crowley said, voice a little tighter than it had been, but full to the brim with honeyed warmth, “because he is Malevolent. Malapert.  _Monstrous_.”

“I can be malapert,” Aziraphale conceded, kissing the other nipple, and Crowley’s fingers dragged over his scalp: his other hand came to rest on the side of Aziraphale’s arm, fisting in the wool of his jumper. “I love my love with an N, because he is  _Nice_.”

“Because he’s a Nancy,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale bit. Crowley didn’t draw away: he groaned, and arched his back into Aziraphale’s mouth. Both of his legs wound around Aziraphale’s now, drawing them close together, but he wasn’t aroused, Aziraphale didn’t think. “Because he is  _Nasty_.”

“I love my lover with an O, because he is  _Orgasmic_ ,” Aziraphale said, and he dragged his lips up the side of Crowley’s neck, toward his jaw. Crowley shivered, and again, Aziraphale knew it wasn’t arousal. He trembled somewhat, under this sort of talk, and Aziraphale didn’t fault him for it. It was not in his nature to love, or to be loved, and yet, he loved, and was loved, all the same. Aziraphale kissed his ear. “Because he is my Only One.”

“I love my lover with an O,” Crowley said, “because he is Officiousss.”

“With a P, because he is Pulchritudinous. Because he is  _Pensive_ : he is Petulant, and Pedantic, and  _Pretty_.”

“Can I go back to M,” Crowley asked breathlessly, “and add Meritorious?”

“Only if I can add  _Mine_ , dear boy,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley kissed him on the mouth. He didn’t try to roll them over, or try to control the situation. He just kissed him, let Aziraphale’s tongue slide against his own, let Aziraphale  _hold_  him. “With a P?”

“Because he is Powerful,” Crowley said. “And Plentiful… Though Purblind.”

“One more.”

“Because he is  _Pure_.” Crowley’s voice cracked slightly, and Aziraphale let out a soft hushing noise against the underside of his jaw, pressing a dozen kisses along the shelf of bone. “I love my lover with a Q, because he is Queer.”

“Are you going to cycle through every slur you can think of?”

“I was very kind on F, I thought, angel. Fruity, Fairy, Fa—”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley opened his eyes, cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“Sssorry,” Crowley said. “Jussst… Hard.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured. “I know, my dear, my darling, I know.”

“Because he is Quixotic,” Crowley said.

“Because he is  _Quintessential_ ,” Aziraphale replied, and began laying his kisses upon the burnished skin of Crowley’s shoulder. “I love my lover with an R, because he is  _Ravishing_. Because he is Radiant; because he is a  _Rapscallion_.”

“Because he is Rude.”

“Not always!”

“To your customers.”

“Oh,  _them_ ,” Aziraphale said scornfully, and Crowley let Aziraphale take hold of his hand, that he could better kiss down the length of his arm. “With an S, because he is  _Serpentine_. Because he is Salacious; he is Slick; Swish;  _Sweet_.”

“Because he is Stupid, and Silly, and Slipshod, and Severe.”

“I love my lover with a T, because he is  _Terrible_. He is Terrific.”

“I love my lover with a T, because he is Troublesome. And Tubby.” Aziraphale laughed against Crowley’s wrist, nipping playfully at the soft skin there.

“With a U,” he said lowly, “because he is Uncertain.”

Crowley looked up at him, his face a mask, as Aziraphale gently kissed the palm of his hand. “Because,” he said slowly, “he himself is Unsure.”

“I love my love with a V,” Aziraphale murmured, beginning to kiss down the other arm, “because he is  _Vivacious_. Because he is full of Vim; because he is Vindictive, and Villainous, and  _Virtuous_.” Crowley shuddered, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“Because he isss Vapid,” Crowley said, his fingers quaking in Aziraphale’s gentle hold, “because he is Vicious, and Vexatious, and Vaingloriousss. Because he is  _Valiant_.” Again, Aziraphale kissed his palm, but this time, dragged his lips against Crowley’s fingers, too, and Crowley let out such a soft, pathetic little noise that Aziraphale leaned down once more to meet him, blanketing Crowley’s body with his own. Crowley clutched at him, wound his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and pulled him closer. “I love my lover with a W,” he said, “because I’m feeling Wobbly.”

“My lover Wavers,” Aziraphale said against Crowley’s lips, “but I love him because he is Winsome. Because he is Wild, and Wilful. I love my lover with an X… Er. For some reason.”

“Because he is Xanthous,” Crowley murmured, absently twining his fingers through a loose curl of Aziraphale’s hair.

“Oh, very good, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “I love my lover with an X, because he is  _Xenodochial_.”

“Was that a crossword clue?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Aziraphale demurred. “I love my lover with a Y, because he is  _Yielding_.” Crowley inhaled, long and slow, and looked up at Aziraphale with no fear in his eyes, no fear: only desperate, loving trust.

“Yummy,” Crowley said, “and Yearning.”

“I love my lover with a Z,” Aziraphale said fervently, and with a demonstrative kiss to Crowley’s nose, “because he is  _Zen_.”

“I love my lover with a Z,” Crowley replied, “because he is Zealous.”

“Shall we go backwards?”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley said emphatically, and he shifted their weight to one side, vaulting them over, so that Crowley rested on top of Aziraphale’s chest, kneeling between his thighs. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, his nose digging sharp even through the thick wool, and Aziraphale softly sighed.

“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked, more anxiously than he meant to.

“Mm,” Crowley said. “Fine. Just a few more minutes, and then I’ll get dressed.”

“We needn’t,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley shook his head, taking Aziraphale’s hand by the wrist and drawing it to the back of his neck. Aziraphale did as he was bid, drawing his fingers in light, easy circles over the back of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed. “I do love you, Crowley.”

“Love you too,” Crowley said: his tongue hissed with acrid smoke, but it was only a little burst of grey cloud, and he deftly pretended not to notice it. Aziraphale smiled, and he leaned forward, kissing the top of his head.

Crowley melted against him, and Aziraphale felt the sunshine on his face as they lay back together.

 

[1] He had recently reread Isherwood’s  _A Single Man_ , and was currently feeling a strong yearning for the easier (and harder) days of the 1950s and ‘60s.

[2] Aziraphale’s pillow, actually. Aziraphale had noticed, since the two of them had settled into the cottage together, that Crowley was rather obvious and rather unrepentant in burying himself in Aziraphale’s scent, when the mood so struck him. It was, he felt, rather sweet.

[3] Which was, of course, purely aesthetic. Nonetheless, you really couldn’t pose for portraiture, which Crowley adored to do, and get by without one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Love My Lover With A-- [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194660) by [AJfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic)




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